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“Making the declaration and putting it into words are two different things,” she said ruefully.
Eric stared at her, his gaze unwavering. For years, she’d craved his attention, hoping he’d look longingly at her. Not that his expression held a hint of desire right now. He was assessing, analyzing. “Do you remember when you were eight and your class adopted a child in Africa?”
Georgia’s brow furrowed. “Yes. She was from a small village, and her parents were struggling to feed her and her family. She wanted to go to school.”
“After school that day, Liam and I rode home with you in the carpool with Marshall Thompson. You declared that you were going to become president of the world and once you were elected, you’d make sure every girl in Africa could go to school and grow up to be a doctor. Marshall laughed at you and told it was impossible.” Eric sat up, reaching for a napkin. “You tried to take a swing at him in the backseat of his mom’s station wagon.”
“Yeah, but we’re not kids anymore, remember?” she said. “It’s not that easy. And Marshall Thompson was right. You can’t run for president of the world.”
Eric smiled as he wiped his hands clean and set the napkin aside. He sat across from her, so close she could reach out and touch his arms, his shoulders, his chest . . .
“Maybe you’d be the first,” he said, his blue eyes locked with hers. “I have a feeling you can do anything you put your mind to, Georgia.”
His smile and the laughter in his eyes faded, eclipsed by burning intensity.
“Anything?” she said softly, her gaze dropping to his lips.
He nodded, his jaw tightening. She watched as tension rippled through his muscles. He leaned forward a fraction of an inch before catching himself, his hands forming fists, pressing into the picnic blanket.
Georgia looked up. Heat, wanting, it was all there in his expression. Her heartbeat went a notch higher. But this time, the parts of her body begging to respond to that look weren’t the same ones that felt the rush when she shot arrows.
“If I can do anything . . .”
Her voice trailed off as she felt him intently studying her mouth. But then he shifted away, as if adding physical space would help. And heaven help her, she wanted to close that gap.
Georgia inhaled sharply. Her courage ran deep. She knew that. She just hoped it wouldn’t fail her, because right here, right now, she wanted to kiss him. One kiss. It wasn’t too much. She knew she shouldn’t, but that didn’t quiet the need, burning bright, ignited by years of wishing she could touch her mouth to his.
Leaning in, she captured his lips, kissing him lightly. Not enough to taste him. But that simple connection—her mouth pressed to his—sent shock waves through her body. Nothing else touched. She kept her hands firmly planted on the picnic blanket, and his remained at his side. She felt his lips part as if he wanted to take control of the kiss. But he held back.
His jaw tightened, his lips closing tight as he pulled away. Georgia didn’t move. The firm line of his mouth, the way the muscles in his forearms tensed against his rolled-up shirtsleeves—Eric was the picture of self-restraint. But his eyes told a different story. In their deep blue depths, she saw how close he was to setting his unwavering moral compass aside and taking what he wanted.
Her.
A thrill ran through her body. Damn it, she yearned for it to, not wanting to think beyond this moment and the rush of physical desire.
“You still haven’t touched me,” she said, letting her words push against his resolve.
“I’m not going to.” His voice sounded strained, as if holding back took everything he had.
“Eric.” She tilted forward, every wild, reckless fiber of her being pushing her to demand another kiss.
His hand touched her face, cupping her cheek, gently holding her lips away from his. She pressed against his palm and closed her eyes. Slowly, she felt him draw near. But his mouth didn’t find hers.
“Eric. Please. I want this.” She kept her eyes shut. They were so close, his breath brushed her ear, teasing, taunting, and stirring her desire. She lifted one hand, wanting to rest it on the front of his shirt, but his free hand wrapped around her wrist, holding her away.
“You think I don’t?” His voice was low and raw. “I want to run my hands over you, Georgia. I’m dying to feel the weight of your breasts. Hold them up to my mouth. I want to lick every damn inch of you. When you come I want you to know it’s because I’m touching you, tasting you.”
He drew back and she opened her eyes. There was fire in his expression—threatening, exciting, and downright primal. In sharp contrast, the rise and fall of his chest remained measured and controlled. But just barely. He was holding on to control by a thread. And if she had scissors, she’d have shredded his resolve along with his shirt.
Eric relaxed his hold on her wrist, but he didn’t let go. It was almost as if he knew she was thinking about undoing the buttons and stripping off the fabric. The man who’d spelled out what he wanted didn’t belong in button-down business clothes.
“I want to touch you, Georgia, but I can’t.” He released her, pushing away and rising to his feet. “It’s not right.”
“Are you sure?” she challenged. “Because it feels more than right.”
Eric turned away, scooped up the bows, and headed for the four-wheelers. “We should head home.”
Georgia nodded. But she didn’t move. Right or wrong, she didn’t want to go back, only forward.
